


Possession

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-13
Updated: 2005-08-13
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: You wonder, sometimes, if you're the joke, or he is, or she.  Or are you all in ittogether?





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Possession**

**by: Delightfully Eccentric**

**Character(s):** CJ, Toby, Andi  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** The West Wing characters and histories aren't mine, and are used here for love, not money.  
**Summary:** You wonder, sometimes, if you're the joke, or he is, or she. Or are you all in it together?  


Troubles come in threes. Him. You. Her. 

But you walked away - made it two - made it fall apart. 

Other things come in threes; you're not sure what. Good things, maybe? Clichés are like physics, every hoary saying has an equal and opposite. 

Good things. That almost works. Him. You. Her. Individually, not so bad. Even in pairs. You and him. Him and her. Her and you. 

You don't think of it. You have work to do. 

* 

He's defiant when you see him. 

You give him nothing to defy. 

He doesn't need your help to fight. It doesn't take two. Maybe three. 

He barks polling statistics at you. You tell him what you're going to do about them. The statistics. Not him and her. 

Thinking of that, though, you show him the wires about them. Him and her. Not the statistics. 

You make a joke of it. You're witty. He doesn't laugh. Defiance again. 

You notice he's noticed your pendant, silver. Looks antique but you picked it up for a few dollars in a store where your niece buys her accessories. He doesn't care. It hangs just to the right of your heart. If he unbuttoned your blouse it would fall just between your breasts. 

He's too familiar to be ashamed. So are you. 

You ponder what there is to be lost this time. Possession, an interesting concept in the abstract. 

He used to have you quiz him on things like that when he was studying for the bar. In the legal sense, possession requires an act of the body and an act of the mind. There's got to be an intention to exercise control. An intention to hold as one's own, for one's own benefit. Of course, that's natural possession. Nothing natural about this tangle. 

Make it civil (that'd be a trick) possession. Possession through the body of another. That's more... conceivable. 

You've had years, you and he. You haven't used them. There's been nothing - no, not nothing (triple negative, how clumsy, he'd mock), quite. But there's been nothing... Pick a word: corporeal. Nothing you can touch. 

Still there's been a lingering something that you didn't know you had till you lost it. You don't know if you miss it. You know you don't want to lose anything else. 

Last time you lost everything. 

You still have work to do. You tell him so. He goes to bother someone else. 

You rub your neck. On the way you brush your pendant, warm where his eyes have been. 

* 

He's here again. So is she. 

You grimace politely. So does she. He's looking at you. 

"I like your necklace," she says. 

You don't feel bad about it. 

She doesn't look like she feels she's won. She never really got it, though you don't know why you're judging her - you still don't get it. 

You wonder if he expects you to walk away again. You won't. You have work to do. 

Your resolve is stronger than this, you think. This time. You're not sure. He can still surprise you. 

You begin to laugh. She looks at you, perplexed. You almost feel sorry for her but stop yourself in time. 

You ask them if they knew that one percent of the population, mostly men, suffer from blinding headaches during sex. Orgasmic cephagia, you elaborate. Bear with a sore head. 

Her eyebrows furrow; his slide downwards and towards each other to form a low, bothered line. Your smile fades because they don't get the joke. 

You wonder, sometimes, if you're the joke, or he is, or she. Or are you all in it together? 

No, you think as he harries her away, that last one's not it. 

* 

Leo's office. Staff. That includes him and it includes you and you wouldn't be surprised if one day they made a slot to squeeze her into. 

She'd be the new girl. You'd get to talk down to her. Sad that you wouldn't really want to. 

Her and you. In some ways the trickiest of the pairings. On the surface you maintain a mutual civil dislike. Underneath there are layers of mistrust, attraction, the same sort of things that colour him. You don't know what's different, aside from the anatomical. 

You think instead of a rider a Congressman from Iowa is trying to attach to an innocuous community finance initiative featuring a back-door ban on sex aids. He is very vocal about it. 

A headache gnaws at the back of your brain. It's his fault, but it certainly isn't orgasmic cephagia. The member from Iowa would approve. 

You linger at the end, muddle up something to say to Leo. Just to remind yourself that you're important and that you're not going to walk away this time. 

Leo barks at you. *He* is not the only one who can do that. 

Leo asks if something's bothering you. You lie. Fake it till you make it. 

* 

If troubles come in threes and you're detached from the three maybe it ceases to be a trouble. 

That's what went wrong last time; you didn't sever yourself from the trinity, you just severed yourself from your life, which also happened to be their lives. You've too much to lose this time. You're hanging on. 

You followed them in a notional form, some kind of unholy ghost, haunting and haunted. Gone but not forgotten. 

This time you'll stay but forget. It's the best you can think of. 

Last time you lost everything. 

* 

Sam drops by. You're going to miss him, but his presence scares you a little, as if it's a hint that you're supposed to go next. You won't. You're needed. You need. 

Sam says you look good but doesn't make it sound like a compliment. You suddenly think you're trying too hard and self-consciousness floods your cranium. It makes you dizzy with the contrast to the her-consciousness that's attached itself to you lately and the him-consciousness that has impinged upon your psyche for far too long. You decide you like it. 

You surprise Sam with a hug, a moment of weakness in a lifetime of restraint. But it hasn't been a lifetime. Only a him-time. 

You're so discreet. You say the right things, most of the time; you try to make it rub off on the others, like he did with you. You don't step out of line, much. 

You used to. You used to say what you meant and not what looks least threatening when confined to a cage of black lettering. The first time he saw you, you were screaming what you meant, screaming with your voice, for you had one of your own then, and your soul and your body, thrashing in a crowd of students, clinging to one end of a banner that a fallen (or arrested) comrade had dropped. 

Nowadays you are someone else's voice and your body is weary to its limits, so your soul protests so quietly that even you don't always notice. 

He saw you before you saw him. You remember that now. 

He took you and pleased you and taught you to be discreet enough to work in the part of the world where things got done. Then he showed her to you and you thought maybe he had his reasons for teaching you the value of discretion. 

By now it's a talent much-admired - you're much admired, you try to remember - but the value of anything is only what someone will pay for it, and you can't imagine that anyone will pay you to walk softly and communicate in ambiguous whispers after you leave here. 

So you won't leave. Not this time. It's not that you have so much to lose, you reflect, it's that it's all you've got. That's too much. 

* 

A noise behind you, a cleared throat. Her. You smile. You're good at that, especially when delivering bad news and hoping no one will notice. 

You have no news for her. Everything between you is older than is flattering to think of. You wonder why she has come, and realise she wonders too. 

Her and you. The connection is binding, but you and she don't quite exist in the same dimension. 

Her. You. You have so much in common but you'll be damned if you can name one thing, except him, and there is no having of him for you, in common or otherwise. She has taken possession, whether she wants it or not. 

You offer her coffee and have your assistant fetch it. The message: you are a professional. You have work to do. There's more tying you here than just him. She can't dispossess you of your office. 

You push some papers in a drawer as if to shield them from her prying eyes, which in fact are focused on the crows' feet around your own. 

You can feel a growl in your throat rise and turn it into a cough. She is awkward, none of the easy self-assurance you used to find so irritating, so misplaced. You realise it's him-assurance she lacks. You could empathise, but you don't bother. 

She says it's a long time since the two of you had the chance to have a proper chat. You can't recall the two of you ever having a proper chat. You used to talk about him. That wasn't proper. 

You think that if you ever do leave you will write a frank and explicit memoir focusing on him and you and her. That would be... amusing is the word. One of the words. 

You tell her the truth. You have work to do. 

* 

Troubles, threes, you, him, her. Time you were putting you first. Him, second. Because of work, that's all. Work's your possession, for now. You're not walking. 

Except that you are, and fast, and talking agitatedly at the same time, about the effects the shift in agricultural policy will have on voting patterns in Nebraska. It comes naturally. It's what you do. 

You outpace him; there's not much in it height-wise but your legs are longer. You also spend more time in the gym, in that he spends none at all. 

He falls behind. You turn around, he's panting a little and looking at you like you've never met. 

This is what you do now. An aide presses a folder into your hands as she flies past. 

He gave you this, at least. 

End. 


End file.
